Sucker Bet (16 page)

29

Billy Tiger had given airboat tours in the Everglades since he was a teenager, and had met no resistance when he’d asked the man who managed the marina to lend him a boat for the afternoon.

The man had tried to give him a powerboat with a fan engine, thinking Tiger wanted to raise hell for a few hours, but Tiger had taken a johnboat instead. The fan boats could be heard for miles, while the electric johnboats were not heard at all.

The Micanopys had inhabited Florida for three hundred years, but only since the early 1900s had the tribe lived in the Everglades. This shift had been caused by a pair of ruthless robber barons named J. P. Morgan and Henry Flagler, who had descended upon the state and laid claim to the Micanopy tribal lands—all of it beachfront—then hired soldiers and policemen to drive the Micanopys out.

Tiger piloted the johnboat down a brackish waterway choked by mangroves and rotting willows. His ancestors had done a smart thing coming here. There was so much swamp—over five thousand square miles—that a man could get lost whenever he chose, and stay lost for as long as it suited him.

A small body of land loomed ahead. It was bright green and covered in dahoon holly. Tiger slowed the engine, and the johnboat bumped the ragged shoreline. He splashed his hand in the water to dispel any water moccasins, then cautiously stepped out of the vessel.

His feet began to sink. He was standing on a tree island. The Everglades were home to hundreds of such islands. He heard a sarcastic quacking and glanced at a flock of roseate spoonbills nesting in a tree, their pink plumage and clownish faces a sharp contrast to the swamp’s greens and browns. Pollution from sugar plantations had nearly wiped out the spoonbills, and only recently had politicians attempted to correct the problem.

He took Harry Smooth Stone’s instructions from his pocket and read them again. Then he checked the time. Four o’clock.

To kill time, he counted the spoonbills. A dozen filled the trees, half of them babies. A few years ago, there had been less than five hundred in all of Florida. Seeing such a big family made Tiger happy in a way that he could not put into words.

He sprayed himself with Cutter. It was the strongest insect repellent on the market, yet he was still getting chewed alive. Finally he got in the johnboat and pushed himself away from the shore. With swamp people, there was no accounting for missed appointments. Sometimes they showed up, and sometimes they didn’t.

He headed back the way he’d come. Flies hopscotched across the water, only to disappear beneath the surface. He considered dropping a line, then imagined Smooth Stone sitting in his cell, wondering what the hell had happened to him.

A two-foot bass sprang out of the water.
Forgive me, Harry
, Tiger thought. Killing the engine, he removed a fishing line from his slicker, then looked over the boat’s edge. Tiny shiners lurked below. Plucking one from the water, he kissed it for luck, then impaled it on the hook and threw it in. The water exploded beside the boat.

Tiger nearly jumped overboard, believing a hungry gator had snuck up on him. Only, what came out of the water was human, but no less dangerous. He watched the familiar figure climb aboard and flop down across from him.

“You scared me, man. What if I had a gun?”

“Then I would have had to take it away from you.”

“Like hell you would,” Tiger said.

His name was Joe Deerslayer, but everyone called him Slash. In and out of trouble his whole life, he’d hidden in the swamps rather than go to prison for robbing a 7-Eleven and shooting the owner in the face. He wore nothing but ratty underwear, his body covered in red sores.

“I’ve got a job for you,” Tiger said.

“Not interested.
”

“Smooth Stone sent me.”

Slash helped himself to Tiger’s water bottle. “What’s he want me to do?”

“Pressure a guy.”

A powerfully bad smell was coming off Slash’s body. He shook out his stringy black hair, which fell well past his shoulders, and said, “Who?”

“Name’s Tony Valentine. There’s a woman who works for him. She’s old. Smooth Stone wants you to scare this old woman and make Valentine go home.”

“Where’s that?”

“Palm Harbor. It’s on the west coat, near St. Petersburg.”

“I know where it is. What’s Smooth Stone paying?”

Tiger reached under his seat and removed a bundle of bills wrapped in Saran Wrap. He tossed the bundle to Slash. “Thirty-five hundred. There’s a red Chevy Impala waiting for you in the casino parking lot. The keys are under the mat. In the trunk there are clothes and a map to Valentine’s house. The old woman works there.”

“Make it five,” Slash said.

“Come on. It’s an easy job.”

“Old women bite as hard as anyone else. It’s gonna cost you five.”

Tiger swallowed hard. Five grand was what it cost to have someone killed. He’d seen it in the newspaper a hundred times. Irate spouses or jealous girlfriends would hire hit men to kill their mates. The hit men always charged five grand.

“Harry just wants you to scare her.”

“Don’t tell me what to fucking do,” Slash said.

The swamp grew deathly still, and Tiger heard the sound of his own breathing.

“Put the rest of the money in the trunk of the car,” Slash said, as if the matter were already settled.

“I’ll . . . have to ask Smooth Stone.”

“And a gun. Something small and light.”

“Right.”

“With ammo.”

“Right . . .”

“And give Smooth Stone a message for me.”

“What’s that?”

“Tell him next time, don’t send a boy to do a man’s job.”

Tiger did not know what stung more, the mosquito chewing his face, or the insult. He watched Slash dive over the side of the johnboat and disappear in the brown-black water, then started up the engine and headed back toward civilization.

The town clown’s name was Russell Popjoy. He was a sergeant with the Broward County police, assigned to the Davie area. A week ago, he had paid Ray Hicks a visit and shaken him down for forty-two hundred dollars so Hicks could run his carnival without fear of being harassed or shut down.

Hicks had not expected him to show up at the hospital. But Popjoy had, walking into Mr. Beauregard’s room Saturday night, right as visiting hours were ending. He was an inch shy of being a giant, with bulging weight-lifter muscles and red freckled skin. He stared at Mr. Beauregard strapped to the hospital bed, then at the monitor taking his heartbeat. Then he’d shaken his head.

“Is he—”

“Going to be okay,” Hicks said.

Mr. Beauregard had passed the critical stage the night before. He’d lost a lot of blood, but chimps could do that and still survive, their hearts big and strong.

“I saw him once in Louisiana,” Popjoy said. “I’m from there. Saw him in a pet shop. I was a kid.” The sergeant rotated his hat in his hands, holding back, then said it anyway. “The owner was a crazy old coot. He said, ‘Gimme a dollar and he’ll play a song for you.’ So I gave him a dollar. Then I walked over to his cage.”

Mr. Beauregard’s eyelids fluttered, and he made a gurgling sound. Hicks found the water bottle with the flexible straw and stuck it into his mouth. The chimp took a short drink and fell back asleep.

“He looks just like a kid,” Popjoy said. “But I guess you know that.”

Hicks put the bottle on the table and said that he did.

“Where was I?” Popjoy asked. “Oh, yeah. It was the strangest thing. I stood in front of his cage, and he picked up a ukulele and played an old Cajun song.
How Come My Dog Don’t Bark (When You Come Around)
. I mean, I didn’t say a damn thing.”

“You like this song?”

“It’s my favorite,” Popjoy said. “It was like he read my mind.”

Many people had said this about Mr. Beauregard, and Hicks guessed it was because they weren’t used to being around an animal as smart as them. A nurse appeared and told Popjoy he had to leave.

Hicks walked his visitor into the hall. The sergeant took a notepad from his hip pocket and flipped it open. “I have a lead on the person who shot him. A young boy sitting on the Ferris wheel saw a black limousine pull up to your trailer. A man got out and went inside. When he came out, the boy thought he saw an object in his hand that looked like a gun.”

“A black limousine?”

Popjoy nodded. “The boy didn’t make out the plate, but I was wondering if you might know who owned the vehicle.”

Hicks sure did. It was the punk from New York who’d paid him to rig the games so a drunk Englishman and his hooker could have an hour of fun. He’d kept the punk’s business card, which now resided in his wallet.

And what would Popjoy do with such a piece of information? They couldn’t arrest the punk—not enough evidence. But they could pay him a call and shake him down. Which was why Popjoy had come calling.

“Sorry,” Hicks said.

Popjoy looked disappointed. He shut his notebook and put it away. Then put his hand on Ray Hicks’s shoulder and left it there longer than Hicks would have liked.

“I’m here to help. I want you to remember that.”

“Go to hell,” Hicks said when he was gone.

30

Bill Higgins had stayed in his car Saturday night casing Saul Hyman’s condo. Once or twice he’d dozed, but for the most part, he’d stayed awake. And now he was paying for it. Sunday, seven
A.M
., and he felt like he’d been run over by a Mack truck. An old guy doing a young guy’s work.

It had been a dull night. At three
A.M
. he’d called Saul’s private line, having gotten the number from a Miami-Dade cop he knew. As Saul picked up, Higgins hung up. He was willing to bet Saul hadn’t slept since.

Which was why Higgins hadn’t gone anywhere. Let Saul look out his window and see the guy who’d run him out of Las Vegas sitting there, pining for him. That would be enough to make his defibrillator go off.

He played with the radio, trying to find a news station that wasn’t Hispanic. He considered calling Tony, just to see if he’d gotten anywhere, but decided against it. If Tony wanted to tell him something, he’d call. Otherwise, it was best to stay out of his way.

They’d met in Atlantic City in 1978. Higgins was there to give testimony against a blackjack dealer who’d ripped off a casino in Reno a few years earlier. Atlantic City had been overrun by cheaters at the time—what hustlers called a candy store—and Higgins had offered to help the local police learn how to spot problem players. The police had agreed. Tony, then a detective, had been one of his students.

Over time, a friendship had developed, and Higgins had immediately realized that Tony was no ordinary cop. He had great instincts and was damn smart, characteristics that were rare in law enforcement. He also had a huge chip on his shoulder and was not someone you wanted to cross. In that way, he was like most cops, including himself. Higgins’s chip had come from spending his formative years at the Haskell Institute. Where Tony’s had come from, he had no idea.

A Hispanic kid on a flashy bike had braked next to Higgins’s rental. Higgins rolled down his window.

“You Bill Higgins?” the kid asked.

“Who’s asking?”

The kid took a brown envelope from his basket. Higgins’s name was written on it in Magic Marker. He watched the kid pedal away, then tore the envelope open.

Inside was a page taken from the
Wall Street Journal,
dated last Friday, with a yellow Post-it.
Thought you’d like to see this,
it read. Higgins scanned the page.

Hackers Scam Internet Casino for $2 Million (Reuters)

100 gamblers got very lucky last Sunday afternoon.

Or did they?

Yesterday, CyberGamble, a Nevada software company that hosts online casino games, revealed that a hacker cracked one of the firm’s servers last Sunday and corrupted the site’s craps, video slots, and poker games so that players couldn’t lose. For a period of approximately two hours, 100 gamblers across the country racked up winnings in excess of $2 million.

Higgins realized he was gritting his teeth. He’d been opposed to Internet gambling for years. Players routinely got screwed by unscrupulous Web sites, while legitimate Web sites routinely got screwed by hackers. But the bad thing was that anyone could play, including kids, and Gamblers Anonymous was reporting hundreds of cases of eight- and nine-year-old addicts. His eyes returned to the page.

CyberGamble, a publicly traded company, is liable for $500,000 of the stolen money, while a $1.5 million insurance claim with Lloyd’s of London will cover the rest. The 100 winners are being allowed to keep their winnings, as there is no proof they were involved in the scam.

He had a good laugh. How stupid were these folks? Of course the hundred winners were involved. Maybe not all of them, but certainly the majority. They were the takeoff men. Hustlers used takeoff men all the time. They were usually upright John Q.
Citizens who appeared beyond reproach. Their cut was generally 25 percent.

A car horn’s beep shattered his concentration. Looking up, he saw a rattling Toyota Corolla sitting next to his car, headed in the opposite direction. Behind the wheel sat a grinning Saul Hyman.

Saul’s eyes were dancing. Then Higgins understood. Saul had hired the kid on the bike and written the note. He’d seen the article and realized it would hold Higgins’s interest long enough for him to pull his car onto the street.

Higgins shrugged his shoulders indifferently. He’d already admitted to himself that he was too old for this kind of work, and this proved it.

“That’s it?” Saul said indignantly.

“What do you want, a medal?”

“I outwitted you, flatfoot.”

“You look cute in a dress,” Higgins told him.

Saul gave him a Bronx cheer, then sped away.

“Put some clothes on,” Nigel said. “We’re going out.”

Candy was lying naked in bed, sipping coffee and reading the
Miami Herald
. She’d woken up expecting Nigel to be angry at her. She’d questioned him the night before. For a lot of guys, that was enough to get rid of a woman.

Only her prince hadn’t said a word about it. They’d made love, and then breakfast had arrived at their door along with a dozen red roses, just like the day before, and the day before that. Nothing had changed.

“Fancy or casual?” she’d asked.

He gave it some thought. “How about Madonna in heat?”

Candy went through her clothes. She had a leather miniskirt with a slit up its side that was supposed to be worn with leggings. She slipped it on, then tried on several blouses, finally settling on a red job that looked like a three-alarm fire. Nigel hung in the doorway.

“Lovely,” he said.

At eleven-thirty, an executive from Polyester Records appeared at the bungalow’s door. Polyester had signed Nigel’s band, One-Eyed Pig, to do a greatest-hits collection, and Candy had seen the contracts and reams of legal bullshit lying around. The executive’s name was Rod Silver. He was about thirty and talked like a pitchman on the Home Shopping Network. He shoved a promotional poster in Nigel’s hand.

“So what do you think? Beautiful, you ask me. The colors are outstanding.”

Candy peeked over Nigel’s shoulder. The poster was a group shot of One-Eyed Pig taken twenty years ago. Wild-eyed, Nigel sat chained to his drum kit. The other members hovered around him, holding their instruments protectively in front of their bodies, like they were afraid of what Nigel might do if he got loose.

“Great,” Nigel said.

Silver kept talking all the way to the stretch limousine parked in front of the hotel. The limo was pink, as was the driver’s uniform, a Miami Beach fashion statement if there ever was one. The driver was a mean-looking black man with a shaved head.

Candy got in, her bare legs sticking to the leather seat. She felt cheap, but Nigel seemed to be having a good time, and that was all she cared about. Silver sat opposite them and glanced discreetly out the window as Candy got comfortable.

“Where are we going?” Candy asked.

“The Virgin record store,” Silver said. “Nigel’s going to sign autographs.”

“You mean the Virgin store on Collins?”

Silver nodded enthusiastically. “There’s already a huge crowd. This baby’s going to go platinum in six weeks. Mark my words. Six weeks.”

Candy looked at Nigel. They had gone shopping in the Virgin store three nights ago. It was two blocks from the hotel. Sensing her confusion, he explained. “I can’t just show up, my dear. My fans would not tolerate it. I must appear in an impossibly expensive car being driven by a menacing-looking fellow who may or may not be a homicidal maniac.”

“It’s in the contract,” Silver explained.

Candy looked at the driver, then at Nigel. “Is he?”

“Is he what?”

“A homicidal maniac?”

“He’s an actor,” Silver said. “We hired him because he fits the bill.”

Candy fell back in her seat.

“Oh, wow” was all she could think to say.

The line outside the Virgin store stretched around the block, the faithful done up in leather and chains and motorcycle boots. They would have looked real tough if not for the gray hair and potbellies. The driver got out and opened their door.

“It’s show time,” Silver declared.

He walked Nigel and Candy to the front door, where they were greeted by the gushing store manager and a handful of employees. Introductions were made. Nigel shook everyone’s hand while clutching Candy to his side. Candy played along, smiling and giggling and showing plenty of leg.

“I saw you at Shea Stadium in 1980,” the store manager said. His name tag said Trip. A forty-year-old hippie who looked like he smoked his breakfast. “Greatest concert I’ve ever seen. You went through three drum kits and two cases of beer.”

“I was sick that night,” Nigel said.

“You were?”

Nigel nodded. “Had to take it easy.”

Trip laughed. So did Silver and the driver. Candy didn’t get it but laughed anyway, because that was what you did around a celebrity.

The store was a high-ceilinged monster with the personality of an airplane hangar. Trip escorted them to the back. A large area had been cleared. Sitting on a table were stacks of CDs and DVDs. Hanging behind the table, a giant poster of Nigel’s famous
Rolling Stone
cover, his naked upper torso swathed in rusty chains, his eyes gleaming like a maniac’s. Candy had always thought it was the ugliest picture she’d ever seen.

“Ohhh,” she purred into Nigel’s ear.

“Does it turn you on?” he said.

“Uh-huh.”

A devilish gleam spread across his face. He got behind the table and took the chair. A pen was produced. He took it in his right fist, poised for the onslaught.

“Ready?” Trip said.

“Bring on the mob,” Nigel replied.

Trip clapped his hands like a dance instructor, and the employees opened up the store. The crowd came in a little faster than Candy would have liked, and she got behind Nigel and stayed there as he chatted and signed autographs. She’d seen her share of celebrities, and Nigel was a class act. He was friendly and didn’t mind pumping the flesh.

Soon the store was mobbed. No one was leaving, and Candy found herself staring at a big white sheet on the other side of the room. It was covering something fairly large, and at first she thought it was a car. Only, it was too small to be a car.

A voice came over the store’s PA. Nigel lifted his head. Trip was standing by the sheet, mike in hand.

“Folks, we have a real treat for you this afternoon. Through the generosity of Polyester Records and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in beautiful Cleveland, Ohio, we have flown in one of the most famous musical instruments in the world.” Grasping the sheet with his free hand, Trip whisked it away to reveal a gleaming drum kit, the initials NM written in block letters on the face of the base. “Used in the famous East End recording sessions for One-Eyed Pig’s first album,
Baby, You Need It Bad,
here they are, Nigel Moon’s own drums!”

The crowd hooted and hollered. Someone started to chant “Nigel, Nigel” until it became a chorus. Nigel got out of his chair and wrapped his arm around Candy’s waist.

Candy could feel his heart beating wildly.

“Are you all right?”

“Of course,” he said.

They walked over to where Trip stood, and Nigel took the mike.
“Monster, Monster,”
the crowd chanted, that being the name of the band’s most famous song. Nigel tried to speak. The crowd would not stop.

“Would you?” Trip asked, holding up a pair of sticks.

Nigel stared at them, then him.

“Where’s your bathroom?”

Trip pointed across the room. Nigel handed him the mike, then bowed to the crowd. Still chanting, they parted and let him through.

He was moving quickly, like he really had to go, and Candy saw him pick up speed as he reached the front of the store. Instead of veering to his left—in the bathroom’s direction—he went straight instead.

His body hit the front doors hard.